When I was at university, I liked to piss

            in the all-gender bathroom. Where my gender 

                        is less she/he/they and can be more she/they/it.

When my therapist calls me she, I feel

            like concentrated orange juice, with the pulp

                        sticking to the rim of the glass. 

He self-discloses, and I am thinking

            how do I tell him I am closer to a she/they/it

                        than a she/he/they.

My boyfriend refuses to call me he,

            and laughs when I say I might start taking T

                        just to really shake things up between us.

No longer call him a queer man 

for dating someone agender,

            but have him really question his sexuality.

The pulp is serrated through a citrus juicer

            and I feel it wash over my tongue. I want grapefruit,

                        but my SSRIs. It is playing with the wolf, and being 

the reindeer. All tender-footed, and warm.

My therapist tells me something personal

            and I am worried he is going to offboard me.

I refuse to tell him this, and instead, find myself

            as the juice dripping around someone’s hands,

                        wiped up by the paper towel, held next to the sink.

My boss tells me in passing they are uncomfortable

            with another student’s pronouns. They refer to it 

in terms of they. Everyone in the room agrees.

I am a deer caught in the middle of the road

            and I haven’t moved, and my eyes aren’t blinking,

                        even though the car is coming, and it is less than a mile away.

It is a 2011 Civic, and both headlights are out,

            and it is speeding to the moon, where I find myself

                        and my stellar body modifications.

They make me feel not-of-this-world, beyond-the-gale,

            off-this-plane. And I am asking myself if there is a pronoun                        more beyond than even it.